The banquet hall smelled of roasted lamb and damp wool. It was a smell that stuck to the inside of the nose, thick and heavy, a scent that belonged to no specific time but to all times. Margaret sat at the end of the long table. Her hands were folded in her lap. They were pale. They were still. The candles flickered. They did not waver. They burned with a steady, blue heat.

Across from her sat her brother, Julian. He was eating. He ate with a quiet intensity. He tore the meat from the bone with his fingers. He did not use the knife. The knife was too far away. The meat was too close. The blood on his fingers was not red. It was black. It was the color of the ink in the well outside.

Margaret watched him. She did not blink. She had not blinked in a long time. Blinking was a thing for the living. The living needed to keep their eyes moist. Margaret’s eyes were dry. They were bright. They were hard as flint.

The room was full of people. They were dressed in fine clothes. Silk. Velvet. Lace. But the clothes were wrong. The seams were loose. The fabric hung in rags. The faces were smooth. They had no mouths. They had no eyes. They were masks. They moved around the table. They poured wine from jugs that were empty. The wine was clear. It was water. It was tears.

Margaret did not drink. She held her glass. She watched the liquid tremble in the stem. It did not spill. It was held in place by a force that was not gravity. It was held by memory.

Julian looked up. He saw her. He smiled. The smile was a crack in the mask. It showed the teeth beneath. The teeth were small. They were sharp. They were the teeth of a child.

"You are here," he said. His voice was thin. It was like the sound of wind through a broken window.

"I am here," she said.

"Did you find it?"

"I found the door."

"The pale door."

"Yes."

Julian chewed. He swallowed. He wiped his mouth with a napkin. The napkin was white. It stained black. He dropped it on the floor.

"I did not find it," he said. "I was inside it."

Margaret looked at him. She felt a coldness in her chest. It was not fear. It was recognition. It was the feeling of knowing a word you had forgotten. It was the feeling of seeing your own face in a mirror you had not touched for years.

"You were inside it," she repeated.

"Yes. And I came out. But I was different. I was lighter. I was free."

"Free from what?"

"From the weight."

"From the guilt?"

"No. From the self. I left the self behind. I left the pain behind. I left the name behind. I am no one. I am nothing. And it is good. It is so good, Margaret."

She looked at his hands. They were still stained. The black blood was drying. It was cracking. It was falling off in flakes. Beneath the flakes, the skin was pale. It was the same pale as the door.

"You are lying," she said.

Julian laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves skittering on stone.

"Who am I lying to?" he asked. "You know me. You know what I am. You know what we are."

"I know what you were."

"We are the same. We are the same."

He reached across the table. He took her hand. His fingers were cold. They were like ice. They were like stone. He squeezed her hand. He did not hurt her. He held her. He held her with a tenderness that was devastating. It was the tenderness of a man who has nothing left to lose. It was the tenderness of a man who has already lost everything.

"Look at me," he said. "Look at my face. Do you see the mask? Do you see the man beneath?"

She looked. She looked deeply. She looked into the hollows of his eyes. She looked for the light. She looked for the spark. She found only the dark.

"I see you," she said.

"Good. Then you know. You cannot escape it. You cannot run from it. The door is not a way out. The door is a way in. It is the way back. It is the way home."

Margaret pulled her hand away. She stood up. The chair scraped against the stone floor. The sound was loud. It was sharp. It cut through the silence.

The heads at the table turned. The masks turned. They watched her. They did not speak. They did not move. They were still. They were waiting.

"I will not go," she said.

Julian shook his head. "You must. You have to. It is the only way. It is the only peace."

"I do not want peace."

"You do not know what you want. You are tired, Margaret. You are so tired. You have been running for so long. You have been hiding for so long. You have been carrying this weight for so long. Put it down. Let it go. Let the door take you."

"I am not carrying a weight. I am carrying a life."

"A life of pain. A life of loss. A life of error."

"A life of love."

Julian’s face changed. The mask cracked. It fell away. Beneath it was not a face. Beneath it was a void. It was a black hole. It pulled at her. It pulled at the air. It pulled at the light.

"You are wrong," the void said. "Love is a chain. Love is a cage. Love is the lock on the door. You built the cage. You locked the door. And now you are trapped. You are trapped with the one you love. You are trapped with the one you betrayed. You are trapped with yourself."

Margaret felt the truth of it. It was a cold blade. It cut deep. It cut to the bone. She remembered the night. She remembered the house by the river. She remembered the fire. She remembered the smoke. She remembered the scream. She remembered the choice.

She had chosen to save him. She had pushed him out the window. She had stayed in the fire. She had burned. She had died. And then she had woken up here. In this place. At this table. With this man.

She had thought she was saving him. She had thought she was protecting him. She had thought she was doing the right thing. But she had been wrong. She had not saved him. She had condemned him. She had bound him to her. She had chained him to her. She had made him a ghost. She had made her a ghost.

The door was not in the distance. The door was behind her. It was always behind her. It was the door to her own heart. It was the door to her own guilt. It was the door to the truth.

She turned around. The pale door stood there. It was tall. It was narrow. It was made of wood. It was smooth. It was unmarked. It did not have a handle. It did not have a lock. It was open.

It was always open.

It had been open all along.

Margaret looked at Julian. He was watching her. His eyes were empty. His hands were still. He was waiting. He was hoping. He was begging.

She walked toward the door. Her steps were slow. Her steps were heavy. The floor was cold. The air was thick. The smell of the lamb was fading. The smell of the wool was fading. The smell of the blood was fading.

She reached the door. She placed her hand on the wood. It was warm. It was soft. It was alive. It pulsed under her touch. It beat like a heart.

She did not enter. She did not step through. She did not cross the threshold.

She turned back to the table. She turned back to Julian. She looked him in the eyes. She saw the pain. She saw the love. She saw the obsession. She saw the devotion.

"I will not go," she said.

Julian’s face crumbled. The void expanded. It consumed him. He fell back in his chair. He dissolved. He became dust. He became smoke. He became nothing.

The table was empty. The chairs were empty. The masks were gone. The candles were gone. The room was dark. The room was silent.

Margaret stood alone. She was alone. She had always been alone.

She looked at her hands. They were clean. The blood was gone. The stains were gone. The cracks were gone. They were pale. They were still.

She looked at the door. It was still open. It was still waiting. It was still there.

She turned away from it. She walked back to the table. She sat down. She placed her hands in her lap. She folded them. She waited.

She did not run. She did not hide. She did not escape.

She stayed.

She stayed because the door was not an exit. The door was a mirror. And she could not look at herself. Not yet. Not yet.

She sat in the dark. She sat in the silence. She sat in the pain.

It was a long time. It was a long night. It was a long life.

But she was there.

She was present.

She was awake.

And the door remained open.

And the darkness remained deep.

And the silence remained heavy.

And she remained.

She remained because to leave was to die. And she had already died. And she was still here. And that was enough. That had to be enough.

She closed her eyes. She did not sleep. She did not dream. She simply existed. She simply endured. She simply was.

The pale door stood behind her. It did not close. It did not open wider. It just was.

It was the end.

It was the beginning.

It was the same.